The test of any philosophy is how it helps you survive difficulty. It is simple enough to hold the line in good times, but when your misfortunes seem to know no end, your patience and perseverance were truly tested. The Anglo-Saxons had a trust in wyrd both as pagans and as Christians. The thought might best be summed up in the refrain from the poem Deor:

Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

That passed away, so may this.

Probably the most popular of philosophers in the Middle Ages who counselled this kind of acceptance of fate was the 6th century Roman, Boethius. Even in the 14th century Chaucer still found much to admire, translating the whole of his Consolation of Philosophy into English. He must have considered the book to be helpful in sustaining the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' that human life is made of. We think of him as famous and successful, but at the end of his life he was writing laments about his purse and begging the king to pay the money promised to him.

Success is often clearer from the distance. Up close, it may not be apparent at all.

Like the Buddhists who teach that desire leads to unhappiness, Boethius knew that comparisons between where we are and where we thought we ought to be could crush our spirits. In Book II of the Consolation he writes:

In every adversity of fortune, to have been happy is the most unhappy kind of misfortune.

That Wheel of Fortune: it turns ever. When we are on the bottom, how we wish to be on top. Yet when we are on the top, we seldom think of it ever turning again. Best if, as Guildenstern tells Hamlet, 'On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button' for then the downward turn is certain.

Sometimes gifts arrive in a timely manner. Just in time for the beginning of the semester, a news story broke that provided fodder for first day discussion in my medieval courses: Pagans demand return of church buildings 'stolen' 1,300 years ago. Usually it's great when the news covers the Middle Ages because it makes the period seem more relevant to my students who generally think things that happened a couple of decades ago are 'ancient' already.

Tell Augustine that he should be no means destroy the temples of the gods but rather the idols within those temples. Let him, after he has purified them with holy water, place altars and relics of the saints in them. For, if those temples are well built, they should be converted from the worship of demons to the service of the true God. Thus, seeing that their places of worship are not destroyed, the people will banish error from their hearts and come to places familiar and dear to them in acknowledgement and worship of the true God.

But these modern pagans have no leg to stand on with their argument that the buildings belonged to them. The temples might just as well have been Celtic or Roman. Further their claims of a 'spiritual genocide' are difficult to substantiate: for one thing, conversion in this era was not generally a violent thing. Most of the time it involved only changing a king's alliance.

Moreover, their claims of representing the "original, indigenous faith of the English people" is a bit tricky. For one thing, the 'English' are neither indigenous nor original to the British Isles. The Celts were there long before them, as were the Romans. But they were both invaders too. Even the Neolithic folks who first farmed the lands of the sceptred isle came from across the Channel to introduce the practice to the Mesolithic hunter-gatherers. We go through a lot of invasions and changes before the Angles, Saxons and Jutes arrive as mercenaries after the fall of Rome -- and most of the history of this period is written down by their descendants long after they were Christianised.

I'm a bit prickly about the misuses of medieval history because there's a lot of it going on, both inside and outside the academic community after what Dorothy Kim has called the 'Dumpster Fire Summer' in medieval studies. Across the discipline, many have taken on a renewed commitment to engaging with the controversies involved in 'Teaching Medieval Studies in a Time of White Supremacy' (to use Dorothy's title).

It's great that folks are interested in this historic period, but with the knowledge of the world at your fingertips, don't fall into error by perpetuating ridiculous ideas with no basis in reality. Some good resources to find accessible information about the period include the always excellent In the Medieval Middle blog and the Public Medievalist, which is running a terrific series on Race, Racism and the Middle Ages which also deals with the long and terrible history of anti-semitism.

Anyone acquainted with the long history of fairy encounters from the most ancient to Thomas of Erceldoune to now knows, as Graham Joyce would tell you, to be wary of the EDFF (extremely dangerous fairy folk). You wouldn't call them fairies either, if you had any sense. Be polite to the Gentry.

Yet in the past there were many men foolish enough to try to summon them as lovers.

It's one thing if you happen to run into one under a hawthorn tree (keep your wits about you and don't promise anything you don't intend to keep), but to deliberately entangle yourself is truly living on the edge. I've been enjoying Richard Firth Green's Elf Queens and Holy Friars: Fairy Beliefs and the Medieval Church and among the many disparate threads he weaves together is a selection of texts where men are desperate enough to try to summon these legendary lovers through necromancy. This mix of misogyny and lechery shows up in several examples, perhaps inspired by the fascinating fairies and elf queens of the romances.

Reginald Scot, for example, records a spell beginning, "I conjure thee Sibylia, O gentle virgine of fairies..." by means both Christian and fae "to appear in that circle before me visible, in the forme and shape of a beautifull woman" who naturally will "faile not to fulfill my will" the quite unmagical need to "have common copulation with me" (108).

Green notes several spells of a similar concern edited by Frederika Bain, "arranging for sexual liaisons with fairies" who had to appear in the "forme and shape of a bountyfull maide & virgine" in a "grene gown & bewtyfule [appar]elle & most fayreste to be holde" but most importantly to "fayle not to fullfyle my wile".

The clerk who wrote this spell down claimed to have had success "diverse times" (109), but given the power and wrath of fairy ladies, I wonder what became of him afterward...

The longest day in the Northern Hemisphere is upon us: Midsummer has reached even up here in Scotland where the long days go on and on even when we don't have sun. We've had more than our share lately, which is a bit disconcerting.

I have been deep in Scottish fairy lore for a project I'm working on. It's not my usual bailiwick but I am enjoying the tour immensely. One of the unexpected delights (thanks to a recommendation of the Folk Horror Revival group) is A. D. Hope's A Midsummer Eve's Dream: Variations on a Theme by William Dunbar. I have mentioned the late medieval Scots poet in previous columns like A Headache in Medieval Scotland and A Meditation on Winter.

Hope's book examines his poem The Tretis of the Twa Mariit Wemen and the Wedo with the inkling that they may be either fairy women or -- on Midsummer Eve -- trying to appear as fairy women. The two married women are unhappy but the widow tells them the way to manage their husbands and be happy. The setting of the poem is certainly suggestive of this possibility.

Don't worry: let me give you Hope's translation of the first few lines instead of Dunbar's medieval Scots (though I love it).

Upon a Midsummer's Eve, the merriest of nights, I went out alone just after midnight Beside a goodly green enclosure full of gay flowers and hedged to a great height with hawthorn trees. A bird on a branch there burst into song such that no more joyous bird was ever heard upon bough. What with the sweet sound of her glad song and with the healing scent of pleasant flowers, I secretly approached the bank to lie hid and overhear merrymaking The dew was moistening the dale and birds were singingly loudly.

Here we not only have the propitious time for fairy sighting -- Midsummer's Eve -- but also a winsome bower with flowers and bird singing. Admittedly, with the sun up so early and late, believe me the birds seem to sing night and day this time of year in Scotland. The mention of hawthorn is more suggestive of magic, Hope argues, along with the later mention of holly. And what about the women themselves?

I saw three gay ladies siting in a green arbour adorned with garlands of choice fresh flowers; their glorious golden tresses were shining like gold itself while all the grasses were glittering with cheerful colours... Their mantles were as green as the grass that grew in May time... [their faces] full of burgeoning beauty like flowers in June.

It's possible they're just well-to-do women of the town hiding in a private corner of a garden, sipping expensive wines and telling secrets, but if you run into such a gathering you may do well to follow the example of the poet to stay hidden and to merely observe the guid neibours.

The Scottish version of Hecate (at least according to some) rides with a company of 'weird sisters' in the night, with wild plans of mischief. No wonder I think of it now that Walpurgisnacht is upon us. There's a most interesting poem that offers us insight in to the beliefs of the past. 'The Flyting Betwixt Montgomerie and Polwart' is a humorous verbal battle. Flyting is probably better known amongst the Norse, but the Scots have that tradition of joshing verbal battles, too. Though a challenging text, the 16th century poet Montgomerie demonstrates well the variety and force of Scottish insults (seriously!) but there's also some interesting supernatural information that usually comes in the form of scurrilous suggestions like:

Wih warwolfes and wild Cats thy weird be to wander

With werewolves and wild cats your fate it is to wander

The lines about Nicnevin come along more than half way through the poem. Montgomerie summons Pandora and all the diseases he can think of to insult his opponent.

Than a cleir companie came soone after closse Nicneuen with her nymphes, in number anew, With charmes from Caitnes and Chanrie of Rosse, Whose cunning consists in casting of a Clew, They seeing this sairie thing, said to them self, This thriftles thing is meit for vs And for our craft commodious, Ane vglie Aipe and Incubus Gotten with an Elf.

Nicnevin and her nymphs come along in a huge crowd with charms to cast and spy the poor poet -- a sorry thing -- and decide they need to practice their art on this ugly Ape and Incubus sired by an Elf. These 'Thir venerable Virgins, whom the warld call witches' ride to the meeting on various beasts:

Some backward raid on brodsowes, & some on black bitches, Some in steid of a staig ouer a stark Monk straid, Fra the how to the hight some hobles, some hatches. With their mouthes to the Moone, murgeons they maid, Some be force in effect the foure windes fetches, And nyne times withershins about the throne raid, Some glowring to the ground, some grieviously gaipes. Be craft conjure and fiends perforce Furth of a Cairne, beside a croce Thir Ladies lighted fra their horse And band them with raipes.

Whether riding on 'brood-sows' or black dogs, they fly from the four winds, riding nine times widdershins before they land and tie up their mounts beside the cross (which may be a market cross not necessarily a church's cross). They call on 'three-headed Hecatus' to aid the workings they threaten upon the poor poet. They warn they will tie 'this thrise thretty knots on this blew threed byd' to bind the members of a hundred men to a shoe. 'Now grant us goddess before we go do our duties' they say, then swear

Be the hight of the heavins and be the hownesse of hell, Be the windes and the weirds and the Charle waine Be the hornes, the hand-staff and the kings ell. Be thunder be fyreflaughts, be drouth and be raine, Be the poles and the planets, and the signes all twell Be mirknes of the Moone, let mirknes remaine, Be the Elements all that our crafts can compell, Be the fiends infernall, and the furies in paine, Gar all the Gaists of the dead that dwels there downe In Lethe and Styx thae stinkand strands. And Pluto that your Court commands Receiue this howlat off our hands In name of Mahowne.

They hand over the owl in the name of 'Mahoun' which was a common medieval spelling of Mohammed. It's easy to see how witches, devils, demons and all kinds of enemies were lumped together as the bad guys. And yes, mixing up Greek and Latin terms with native traditions happened a lot too. But the elegance of their infernal cries is quite lovely.

The long history of headaches and their relief could doubtless fill many volumes. Although at the forefront of medicine in many ways (at least for the tenth century) Ali ibn Isa al-Kahhal seemed to have run out of practical solutions when he suggested lashing a mole to your head (then again have you tried it?). Hildegard of Bingen might suggest a need for more viriditas or 'greening' in your life, for "green is useful and mellow" as we know.

But sometimes there was only the suffering. Medieval Scots poet William Dunbar captures that pain well in his short poem:

The Headache

My heid did yak yester nicht, This day to mak that I na micht. So sair the magryme dois me menyie, Perseing my brow as ony ganyie, That scant I luik may on the licht.

My head did ache yesterday night, this day I cannot make [poetry]. So sorely does the migraine vex me, piercing my brow like any arrow, that I can barely look on the light.

And now, schir, laitlie eftir mes To dyt thocht I begowthe to dres, The sentence lay full evill till find, Unsleipit in my heid behind, Dullit in dulnes and distres.

And now, sir, just after mass, I thought to begin to try to address [my task], the words are so difficult to find, hiding in my unrested head, dulled by dullness and distress.

Full oft at morrow I upryse Quhen that my curage sleipeing lyis. For mirth, for menstrallie and play, For din nor danceing nor deray, It will not walkin me no wise.

Quite often on the morrow I rise, when my spirit lies sleeping. For mirth, minstrels and play, for noise nor dancing nor revelry, will not wake me in any way.

The medieval Scots poet William Dunbar is probably best known for his humour, but he offers A Meditation on Winter that captures the melancholy many feel at this time of year.

Into thir dirk and drublie dayis Quhone sabill all the hevin arrayis With mystie vapouris, cluddis, and skyis, Nature all curage me denyis Of sangis, ballattis, and of playis.

Into the dark and overcast daysWhen in sable all the heaven arrays With misty vapours, clouds and skies, Nature all courage me denies Of songs, ballads and of place.

Which is to say that the inclement weather does not move him to want to write poems or songs. The dark and overcast days he describes as 'sable' which is the heraldic term for black and even then, the colour of mourning. He seems to be in mourning for his muse. It's almost as if the season drowns him out "With wind, with haill, and havy schouris" all the time.

I walk, I turne, sleip may I nocht, I vexit am with havie thocht. This warld all ovir I cast about, And ay the mair I am in dout, The mair that I remeid have socht.

I walk, I turn, I may not sleep / I am vexed with heavy thought. I cast about over this whole world / yet ever more am I in doubt / the more I have sought a remedy.

The poet seems to be spiraling down into hopelessness as every attempt to find a solution to his melancholy just leaves him more heavy in his thoughts. He turns to allegorical figures for guidance. Despair is no help, of course. Patience counsels him to keep Hope and Truth by his side. Prudence suggests that we are always wishing for something other than what we are and where we are. The gentle sage Age holds out a hand to his brother, and Death opens his gates, reminding the poet that the same fate awaits everyone.

In part that's what winter brings to his drooping thoughts: "For feir of this all day I drowp" for the dying year must remind us all of our mortality. But as Boethius' Lady Philosophy would remind us thus the Wheel of Fortune turns ever. Those downtrodden rise up once more. Death is only a reminder that we must live every day.

Yit quhone the nycht begynnis to schort, It dois my spreit sum pairt confort Of thocht oppressit with the schowris. Cum, lustie Symmer, with thi flowris, That I may leif in sum disport.

Yet when the night begins to shorten / it gives my spirit some part comfort / of the thought oppressed by the showers./ Come, lusty Summer, with your flowers / that I may live in some enjoyment.

Summer may be only a dream in January, but it is all the sweeter for that. Let us not despair but enjoy the pleasures of the season and know that the Wheel of the Year turns on and on.